


Is That a Yes?

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Consentacles, Creature Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Rank Disparity, Rape Fantasy, Romance, Tentacle Sex, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington is lucky to be alive, and Hamilton suggests they make the most of a strange situation.





	Is That a Yes?

Hamilton leans against the nearest bulkhead as the door shuts behind the retreating technician. He's alone with Washington now, and all around them are the reassuring beeps and hums of medical equipment. The tissue-regeneration chamber pulses a steady glow, lights in blue and green signaling the machine's slow, delicate work.

He crosses his arms and looks to his captain. "It could be worse."

The observation earns him what he assumes is a skeptical look—it's difficult to tell under the circumstances—and a gruff, " _How_ , exactly, could this be worse?"

"You could be _in there_ right now." Hamilton nods his head toward the occupied regen chamber with its green and blue lights. "Trapped while your body heals, completely conscious and paralyzed in your own head. The doctors said it'll take three days _minimum_."

The thought makes Hamilton shiver in uncomfortable sympathy. Three days unable to move, speak, or even open unresponsive eyes. Unable to hear anything beyond one's own artificially-slowed heartbeat. Hamilton would break after only a few hours. Washington is made of sterner stuff, but surely three days of that kind of helpless solitude would be too much even for him.

"You're saying I should be grateful to find myself in this… predicament?" Washington gestures downward with one of far too many limbs, indicating his borrowed body. It's surreal to hear Washington's normal voice projecting from a creature with no discernible mouth; Hamilton doesn't know how the hell that works. It's not a question he's likely to ask anytime soon.

"I'm saying even if this isn't ideal, you're lucky they had a spare bio-construct to loan you." 

Their good fortune extends farther than that, honestly. Washington's lucky to be alive at all, to have enough of a body left for the regen chamber to do its work. It's a thought that threatens to knock nausea and panic loose in Hamilton's guts. A truth he can't think on too closely just yet—even with the danger passed—it still puts him on edge to consider how near he came to losing his captain for good.

Washington's physical body looks merely unconscious through the transparent panels of the chamber. No different than the dozens of times Hamilton has woken in the middle of the night—in Washington's bed—and watched his captain sleep. But this is no normal rest, and Hamilton knows how extensive the damage truly is. It's beyond anything the ship's sickbay could cope with; if they hadn't been within range of Starbase Sixteen's advanced medical facilities, the outcome would have been very different.

Hamilton sets those worries aside. They made it in time, and Washington will emerge healthier than ever.

For a long moment he thinks he won't get a reply. That Washington will sulk instead—not that the captain would ever acknowledge the silence as sulking—and leave him to change the subject.

But finally Washington heaves a resigned sigh and concedes, "You're right. This is better. It just feels… strange. And not especially dignified."

Hamilton can sympathize. It would be one thing if the bio-mechanical construct were recognizably humanoid. Strange to occupy an unfamiliar body, but at least Washington would have a face, hands, the proper number of limbs. The creature standing before Hamilton now possesses none of those things. At present Washington looks like something better found in an ocean than aboard a space station. A smooth, solid body, splitting and tapering into half a dozen powerful tentacles.

No face—no distinguishable head—but there are four large eyes blinking from somewhere near the top of the strange figure. If it weren't for the discomfited movements and the captain's voice, there would be nothing to prove this is Washington at all.

Yet somehow the impression is unmistakable. Impossible to look at the unlikely arrangement of limbs and eyes and _not_ see his captain standing there.

Hamilton gives a cheeky grin, a one-shouldered shrug, and says, "I don't know, sir. It's not such a bad look."

"You are joking," Washington answers in the driest tone he's ever heard.

Before Hamilton can conjure a good retort, Washington moves, navigating with impressive grace on his strange collection of limbs. The room is not particularly spacious, and Washington is across it smooth and fast. Stops before the regen chamber, peering down into his own unconscious face.

Hamilton watches in silence, and does not say a word. He can only imagine how unpleasantly surreal it must be, looking at one's own body from artificial eyes. Knowing how close to death that body came. How deep the damage still runs.

"You're right." Washington's voice is soft now. Grudging but sincere. "It could be worse."

They stand side-by-side for a while, neither speaking. Hamilton wishes he could shatter the unwelcome quiet, but for once in his life he can think of nothing to say. There is a solemn gravity to the way Washington stands beside him. Almost, but not quite, perfectly still.

It is Washington who finally speaks. "You should return to the ship and brief the senior staff."

"No need," Hamilton says. "I've been keeping them apprised. As soon as Peggy found out we're going to be in spacedock for three days, she started tearing apart the warp manifolds. Lafayette's taking the opportunity to run the entire ship through emergency drills. And Angelica said something about an upgrade to the transporter protocols."

Washington hesitates a long moment before answering, "Good."

Hamilton turns his head to take in his captain's strange profile. "Sir, you don't have to find some pretext to send me away. If you want to be alone, I'll go. But if it's all the same, I'd rather stay. Here. With you." The close call is still too fresh in his mind. If he returns to the ship there will be nothing for him to do. No distraction from the constant, thrumming need to reassure himself that Washington is safe. If Hamilton has his way, he will spend the next three days _right here_ , leaving his captain's side only for such necessities as food.

There's an unoccupied biobed he can sleep on, and a private washroom through a narrow door; he doesn't need to leave even for rest and hygiene.

Washington gives a soft snort of amusement—even without accompanying facial expressions Hamilton has no difficulty identifying the tone—and a ripple of movement rolls through his body like a wave. "Three days is a long time to sit still, my boy. You're liable to get bored long before our time here is complete."

Washington is wrong, but Hamilton doesn't bother protesting. Boredom won't touch him while the terror is still so close. He can find busywork to carry him through the long hours, but he _will_ spend those hours here. Where he can see Washington's real body breathing in the regen chamber. Where he can hear his captain's voice and speak with him, confirm that he is safe and whole.

Hamilton will not be leaving this room without a direct order.

None of these are sentiments he's willing to speak aloud, so instead Hamilton grins and says, "Guess you'll have to find some way to entertain me. I'm sure we can find some… _unorthodox way_ to pass the time."

He is teasing. Shameless. Trying only to lighten the mood.

But instead of laughing, Washington turns from the regen chamber to stare at him. Impossible to read emotion in the wide stare of those eyes, but there's an incredulous edge to his voice. "You cannot be serious."

Hamilton blinks at his captain and considers. He _wasn't_ serious. He honestly hadn't thought his comment through. It was a blatant proposition, yes, but he'd meant it to be tongue in cheek. That Washington has taken it sincerely is… Unexpected. And a little bit telling. And Hamilton reconsiders.

Perhaps he is not the only one who needs tangible reassurance that the danger is behind them, and that they are _both_ alive and safe.

Quick as lightning Hamilton's intentions shift, and now he is looking at Washington's borrowed form very differently. More aware than ever of the overwhelming size of him, the unlikely grace in every movement, and of the potential in those numerous limbs. The utility, the strength, the power. There are round suckers at the narrow ends of every tentacle, smooth skin in mottled patterns everywhere else, and Hamilton wonders what they will feel like touching him.

Washington stands nearly two feet taller than him like this. He could overpower Hamilton so easily. A variation on a game they have played a dozen times before, but this time it will be strange and new and forbidden.

A slow, flirtatious smile spreads across Hamilton's face. "I told you, sir. It's not such a bad look."

A visible shiver runs through Washington's many appendages, and Hamilton detects a strained edge to the silence. A tightness—not at all suggestive of displeasure—in the words when Washington answers, "It would be impolite _at best_ to use this form for sexual escapades."

"Why?" Hamilton counters, not acknowledging the way his blood heats at the blunt way Washington says such things. The question is rhetorical of course, and he presses on without waiting for a response. "That body is entirely artificial. It doesn't belong to anyone. And besides, there's an en suite washroom _right there_. How would the base staff even know?"

Hamilton's already figured out the door to this private room can lock securely. He knows the schedules of the doctors liable to come check the captain's vitals—he has not left this room once since he was first allowed in—which means their chances of being surprised in the act are essentially nonexistent.

They can do this. Assuming Washington _wants to_ , there is no reason to refrain.

Hamilton eases nearer his captain. Not quite touching—he's still not entirely sure they're on the same page—can't read nonverbal cues reliably under the circumstances. He is not confident Washington wants to be touched in this borrowed body, and he won't chance it without confirmation.

"You have to tell me what you're thinking, sir." Hamilton falls momentarily serious. "It's okay if you don't want to try this." God, he wants to reach out and touch. Not even with purpose; it's a more fundamental urge than that. It doesn't matter what he looks like right now or how strange this all is—this is still _Washington_ , and he is alive, and he is _right here_. How could Hamilton not want to touch him?

Somehow he keeps himself in line. Waits. Impatience runs so thick he can taste it at the back of his throat.

It's Washington who moves in the next instant. Sleek and sharp, he sweeps across the narrow distance still separating them. Crowds Hamilton back against the beeping, pinging regen chamber.

He crowds so close that they _are_ touching now, and Hamilton thrills at the contained strength. One of those improbable limbs brushes the back of his hand, and the touch is unexpectedly cool. Hamilton has to tilt his head back to keep meeting Washington's four glinting eyes. His heart is beating faster now. There's something hot and hungry twisting low in his gut, and he is suddenly confident: he is about to get what he wants.

"Is that a yes?" he asks, because he still needs to hear it.

"Yes," Washington says. And then, in an almost hesitant tone, "I thought I knew the contours of your strangest fantasies. I would not have expected to find this among them."

Hamilton gives a rueful smile. "Didn't really see it coming myself." He lets his sheepishness show through. "I haven't gotten off imagining being violated by anonymous creatures, if that's what you're wondering. And this? You? I'm clever, but my imagination's not _that_ good."

Washington chortles a quick, startled laugh. A burst of sound, over almost as soon as it's begun. The instant he falls silent, he shifts—a ripple of movement—raises one arm to twine the narrow end of a tentacle loosely around Hamilton's throat. The purple-mottled skin is velvety and cool, and Hamilton bites his lower lip to contain the sound of surprise and pleasure that wants to sneak out.

"Is that what you want, Alexander? To be violated?" Washington speaks the words in a rumbling purr. It's a familiar tone. An opening volley full of threat and promise.

They have done this so many times, albeit without the addition of Washington's unlikely new form to contend with. They have safeguards, traditions, understandings established across years of negotiation. The intimacies they share often take on violent aspects—Hamilton loves to fight—loves to know that no matter how hard he struggles, he is physically no match for his captain.

In this body Washington is stronger than ever, and Hamilton swallows hard.

Washington must mistake his silence for reticence—or perhaps he is just exercising extra caution—because there is something softer in his voice when he continues, "Perhaps we should try something tamer. I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me," Hamilton blurts. In all their adventures together so far, he has only twice had to use their pre-agreed signals to call for a ceasefire, and he feels no hint of fear that he might need them now. Even if he does, that's what their safeguards are _for_ , damn it. It's why they share such an intricate set of rules in the first place.

The tentacle around his throat winds tighter. Not enough to choke him, but more than enough to restrain and hold him still. Hamilton reaches up with both hands and is delighted when he can't budge the grip a millimeter.

"Tell me what you want, my boy," Washington murmurs warmly. "Tell me how to touch you."

And oh, Hamilton isn't sure he possesses enough mental facility to articulate an answer. He's potently distracted—by the grip around his throat—by the chill but possessive touch. By imagining what it will feel like to have that strange alien flesh inside him. Anticipation sings in his blood, shivers beneath his skin. How is he supposed to find words to ask for what he wants, when he craves so very many things?

But he _has_ to find the words. These circumstances are too far out of the normal bounds of their relationship, and Washington is too careful. The man will refuse to touch him with violence—might refuse to touch him at all—if Hamilton can't make a steady, rational request.

He inhales deeply, grounding himself with difficulty. Tuning out his frantic pulse, his spinning senses, his half-hard cock. He focuses on Washington's question and genuinely, deliberately considers his answer.

"I want it rough," he says at last, and for all his best efforts he still sounds flustered. "Hold me down. Overpower me. _Violate me_." Washington's words from a moment ago, and god, they so perfectly encapsulate what he wants. What Washington wants too, judging by the shiver Hamilton's plea evokes.

Washington's chuckle is almost musical. Eloquent and soft and impossibly fond. It tightens a different sort of pleasure beneath Hamilton's ribs, alongside the certainty that they _are doing this_. Washington is going to give him exactly what he is asking for, and it will be perfect in every way.

"And will you fight me?" Washington asks, new gruffness sneaking into his voice.

"Tooth and nail," Hamilton breathes, because he knows his captain just as well as Washington knows him. Knows just how fiercely it turns the man on when Hamilton puts up a fight, when he does not restrain himself, when he doesn't simply give in and allow himself to be taken.

"And if I take things too far?" Washington presses.

"I'll signal." Hamilton's breath is coming even faster now. "Oh god, I swear. Please don't hold back, sir." He is desperate for Washington to fuck him up. To use him so hard Hamilton has no choice but to hide his aches and bruises when the medical staff return to do their jobs.

Abruptly Washington retreats, an elegant undulation that removes him from Hamilton's personal space. It's not a refusal—even with no facial expression to read Hamilton is sure of this much—but a necessary withdrawal. The coil around Hamilton's neck slips away, leaving him bereft. Washington's four eyes are still glittering at him, hard and hungry as diamonds.

"Lock the door," Washington orders. "And override the comm system. I _will not_ have us interrupted."

" _Yes, sir_." Hamilton darts across the room, not bothering to conceal his hurry. It's quick work to not only seal the room but also place a command override on the door, an extra barricade that will give them plenty of warning in case of interference. Even quicker is the process of wrangling the comm panel to reroute with a message that both captain and subordinate are temporarily unavailable except for dire emergency. Suspicious perhaps, but then it's a measure they have used before—under far less bizarre circumstances—and so far no one has discovered them.

"Done," he says, and the word is practically a groan. Fuck, how is he already this hot for something he didn't even know he wanted ten minutes ago?

Washington is on him faster than he expects, closing in hard the very next instant. Every movement contains more coordinated strength than should be possible, considering how short a time Washington has occupied this body. Hamilton sure as hell wouldn't know how to contend with so damn many limbs at once.

But Washington maneuvers like this is the most natural thing in the world. At least that's how it feels to Hamilton beneath the onslaught, as he yelps and squirms and resists the concerted effort to peel the uniform from his body.

He is honestly shocked a matter of minutes later when he finds himself completely bare. He doesn't remember the sound of fabric tearing, but it seems impossible for his uniform to have escaped undamaged. The discarded pile of fabric sits crumpled in a corner by the door, his boots knocked over close by, but even if he cared enough to check the state of them he wouldn't be able to. Washington is already twining powerful tendrils around his wrists and waist, restraining him effectively despite the way Hamilton struggles to escape.

"Get the fuck _off_ of me," he snarls, giddy at how useless his efforts are.

The tendrils at his wrists coil farther along his forearms, both grips tightening painfully as Washington yanks him to the center of the room.

"There's no point fighting." Washington murmurs the words like a benediction. "You can't get away. You'll only hurt yourself trying."

" _Fuck you_." Hamilton jerks harder in Washington's hold. It's a strange sensation, the line of cool flesh along his naked back, the tease of other tendrils ghosting along his skin. "Let me go, you can't fucking _do this_ —"

"Shh." Instead of twining a coil around his throat this time, Washington covers his mouth, sealing in Hamilton's words easily. "You're willful. I like that. But I won't let you talk to me that way."

Hamilton twists his head to the side so hard his neck twinges, but he can't get loose, can't voice the stream of profanity just beyond reach. So he screams instead, a sound almost convincing in its illusion of helpless rage. Muffled and ineffective, but then, locked in this private room who would hear them anyway?

"You obviously need to be taught proper respect." Washington does not sound quite so calm or steady now, and Hamilton closes his eyes, arousal flooding him at the proof that his captain is already so affected by their game. "If you can't hold your tongue, I'll have to find some other way to keep it occupied."

One of the coils loosens around his wrist—not enough to ruin the illusion—but enough that Hamilton could wriggle the hand free if he wanted to. Necessary, much as he might wish otherwise; he can't easily use any of their signals if both his voice _and_ his hands are out of commission.

He makes no attempt to free himself. Washington's threat courses through him like a fresh torrent, and the very last thing Hamilton wants is for his captain to _stop_.

He jerks his other arm—the one still tightly restrained—and focuses on the bruising strength in powerful coils.

The tendril silencing him slips loose also, but this is no escape opportunity. This is calculated, and deliberate, and Hamilton has barely managed half the string of profanities he's planned before the tapered end of the same tentacle forces its way into his mouth. Choking him silent.

" _Oh_ ," Washington says, the sound a shivering moan of startled pleasure.

Hamilton's cock jumps eagerly at the almost breathless quality of Washington's voice. The soft edge of unexpected ecstasy.

He tries to drag his head back and away, but he is trapped against Washington's sturdy bulk. There is nowhere he can go as the appendage slips not-at-all-gently down the back of his throat, gagging him, forcing its way deeper by degrees. Narrow as the end is, it's still an uncomfortable sensation of fullness. It's too much, and Hamilton draws a ragged breath through his nose before the tendril slides even deeper and cuts off his air.

Hamilton's throat works in a helpless swallow around the invasive length, and Washington emits a lower, longer moan of satisfaction.

It is torture, the way Washington goes suddenly, utterly still. The way he holds motionless like a goddamn statue, with Hamilton crushed tight against him—with the long, maddening tentacle wedged securely down Hamilton's throat—and with all the patience in the world. As though he has not even registered the way Hamilton is twisting and fighting in his hold; as though he doesn't notice the spasming of Hamilton's throat, gagging violently and ceaselessly around cool flesh.

With his senses spinning, it's all Hamilton can do to stay in his own head and catalog every impossible feeling. The tentacle down his throat is bitter and musky, soft but somehow unyielding. It's so deep now that Hamilton's mouth stretches to accommodate the thicker girth spreading his jaw. It is alien, and strange, and it should be horrifying but Hamilton never wants this to end.

It _must_ end. He can't go without air forever. And as the edges of Hamilton's awareness begin to blur and darken, Washington withdraws—perhaps tipped off by the lessening of Hamilton's struggles—retreating so that Hamilton's throat is empty. The end of the tentacle remains heavy on his tongue, and he heaves desperate breaths through his nose, fights to regain control of his gag reflex.

"Well?" Washington's voice is tinged cruel and teasing now. "Have you discovered a new capacity for deference?"

Hamilton manages to turn his head and shift just enough in Washington's hold to force the end of the tentacle from his mouth. " _Fuck you_." He sounds gravelly already, and his throat aches. "You put that thing in my mouth again, I'll bite it clean off." God, he sounds petulant even to his own ears. Riled and helpless. Lost. His eyes are watering so hard his vision blurs.

Washington hums a disapproving sound. "No. I don't think you will. I already intend to enjoy you thoroughly, whether your body can take the abuse or not. Imagine how much worse it will be if you piss me off."

Hamilton sucks in a breath. God, the things Washington's voice alone can do to him. The exaggerated threat—he knows full well his captain won't damage him—and yet the threat is delivered with such sincerity. It is deliciously convincing. He barely has to suspend credulity at all to feel the words like a promise instead of a fiction.

" _No_." He sounds shaky. "You can't— God, please don't—"

Washington cuts him off with a vicious shove, putting the full weight of his body behind the effort as he pushes Hamilton forward. With a pained grunt, Hamilton finds himself bent at the waist, knocked with startling force against the high edge of the empty biobed.

The restraining tentacles shift and adjust to this new position. Only one of his wrists is held now, but Washington twists it hard, up and behind Hamilton. Pinning his arm at his back, keeping it there easily.

Hamilton's other arm is loose, but it does him little good. There's a tentacle circling his waist too hard for escape, the tapered end teasing idly over his stomach, his chest, his cock. He wonders if he is imagining the fleeting sensation of suction against bare skin, or if Washington is controlling the small suckers at the ends of his numerous appendages. It's not a question he has long to ponder before Washington's weight is leaning down, somehow both behind and on top of him at once.

" _Please_ ," Hamilton gasps, jerking desperately and staying right where he is despite exerting all the strength he can muster. "Please _don't_. I'll do anything, I won't tell a soul, just— Just _stop_."

He clamps his mouth shut when the tendril from before touches his lips. He clenches his jaw, refusing to let it in. Pretending he is _not_ salivating with renewed anticipation.

The tendril is slick this time. Smooth and wet, and not from Hamilton's saliva. He's damn sure Washington hasn't discovered a secret stash of lube behind a console, which means the tentacles are self-lubricating. And damned if _that_ isn't desperately convenient; Hamilton was prepared to make do any number of ways. How glorious that he need not spare another thought for practical accommodations.

"Open your mouth." The order comes cold and hard.

Hamilton shakes his head and does not obey.

Washington grunts a frustrated sound, and then the tentacle around Hamilton's waist unwinds—vanishes in an instant—leaves him with questions, but only for a moment. Only for the scattered seconds it takes for two powerful coils to wrap vice-like around both of Hamilton's legs.

Before he has time to brace himself—to even _try_ and fight back—those coils pry his legs apart. They force his thighs to spread wide, throwing off his center of gravity and leaving his torso crushed awkwardly over the edge of the biobed. He can't regain his footing. Not with Washington's weight still bearing down on him; not with the grip around his thighs keeping him forcibly spread.

Jesus, he's completely exposed. He whimpers when a new appendage sneaks between his legs and nudges at his unprepared hole. There's slickness here too, and Hamilton's head spins with impatience. He wants Washington inside him _now_. He is frantic to see this through.

"Open your mouth," Washington repeats, nudging harder at his entrance but still not forcing his way past the tight rim.

Again Hamilton shakes his head. He is crying now. He strains where his arm is pinned and only succeeds in increasing his discomfort. There's not so much as a sliver of potential for escape, and he's so aroused his entire body aches with the need to be filled.

"Open your mouth for me." Hot impatience singes the repeated command, and this time Washington continues, "Or your ass will have twice as much to contend with."

And _fuck_ , this threat is even hotter than the last. It's almost enough to make Hamilton keep refusing, just to see what Washington will do. But in the fading rational corner of his brain, Hamilton knows better. Washington will never risk hurting him that way. It's an idle threat, no matter how convincing the delivery.

Hamilton inhales hard and opens his mouth.

As he unclenches his jaw, too many things happen at once. The tendril at his lips slithers wetly over his tongue, straight down his throat—not quite far enough to block his air, but far enough Hamilton chokes taking so much without warning. The coils around his thighs yank _hard_ , spreading his legs even wider—too far—the stretch is outright painful now, but he is helpless to close his legs. And the slim, wet end of the tentacle behind him fucks _up_ and _in_ , ramming into him without warning or remorse.

Hamilton screams and his eyes roll back at the heady cocktail of pleasure and pain. The sound is muffled around the tendril crammed down his throat. The scream is broken and fractured, stuttering thanks to the way Hamilton is still gagging around the brutal intrusion.

"Good boy," Washington purrs, and the length in Hamilton's throat presses deeper.

The rhythm Washington sets using his mouth and throat is unexpectedly steady. Deep, but predictable enough for Hamilton to adapt. In and out, never fully retreating, never letting him draw more than a couple breaths together. It is a relentless fucking—rhythmic and regular—and with every thrust it's like Washington is trying to force his way farther down. Just to see if he can. Just to see how far he can go.

Hamilton does not protest, even as the resulting girth makes his jaw ache. Even as he has to squeeze his eyes shut and _focus_ in order to keep breathing as his abused throat is steadily and methodically raped.

Of course, it's not only the tentacle in his mouth that is moving. If anything, the regular rhythm is a calculated distraction. A measure to hold Hamilton's attention as he is gradually violated elsewhere.

The length in his ass follows a less predictable pace. It teases him as it fills him. Rolls in an imitation of fucking only to withdraw and then shove even deeper. It's not at all like having a cock inside him. The tapered shape is no respite at all when the length keeps coming and coming. Forcing its way inside him by careful but inexorable degrees.

With his one free hand he clings to the far edge of the biobed—the only fragment of control he has. He can't close his legs. He can't do anything but _take it_ as Washington's increasingly thick tentacle pushes and pushes and _pushes_ inside him.

God, it feels so strange. A fullness like he's never experienced before. There's subtle pain—his body cramping at the unaccustomed tightness inside—but he also burns with new and confusing pleasure. The pressure against his prostate is ceaseless, and his nerves sing with sparks that leave him shaking and hot. The rim of his ass strains around the wider and wider girth impaling him. And when a particularly harsh thrust twists more inside him too quickly, Hamilton gasps and chokes and thrashes without any hope of escape.

" _Beautiful_ ," Washington croons, the gentle tone incongruous with the violence of his touch. "See how lovely you are when you behave?"

Hamilton sobs a broken scream the next moment his airway is free, only to gag silent a second later.

"That's all right." Another inch shoves into him from behind. "I'll take care of you anyway."

Hamilton wonders how full he is, how much of that twining, maddening tentacle has forced its way inside him. The strain is overwhelming, both at his wide-stretched rim and deeper. A quiet sort of discomfort, slow and steady and no match at all for the roiling pleasure.

He lets go of the edge of the biobed, surrendering his only anchor point in favor of reaching down to touch his own stomach. Curious and a little bit terrified.

Yes.

Fuck, _yes_. When he presses his palm to his stomach he can feel the faintest bulge, the coil of movement through his belly. He doesn't think he's imagining it. The sensation is far too surreal.

He would beg for even more if he could.

Perhaps it's best that he can't. It would break his heart to have Washington refuse him, but Hamilton suspects _more_ would be the wrong kind of too much. A different sort of pain. Better like this: split open and violated and _aching_ , but confident he will be able to conceal any physical evidence once they've finished. Better that Washington is the one setting the pace, the one holding Hamilton down, the one dictating the terms of this fantasy.

When one of the tentacles partially uncurls around his leg, Hamilton barely has time to wonder _why_ before the skinny end is encircling his cock—a tight coil of sensation that makes Hamilton cry out and try to rut forward.

He can't actually move—he's too firmly restrained, not to mention pinned in place by the tendrils spearing into him from both ends—but Washington doesn't make him wait. He tightens the grip, gives a surreal approximation of a stroking hand. A lingering touch. Driving Hamilton to absolute madness.

The world falls away, overrun by a violent storm of sensation. It feels like no time at all before Hamilton's orgasm crashes through him. Desperate. Frantic. Too much. His senses spark bright and overwhelmed. As he comes, for a moment he is not aware of anything at all.

When he returns to himself, his throat is empty and he is breathing heavily, panting with exertion and satisfaction. The coiling touch has fallen away from his cock, and the tentacle still circling his thigh has eased.

There is still a jarring volume inside him—still an uncomfortable width stretching his ass—more painful than pleasurable now that his orgasm has passed.

He whimpers, shifts atop the biobed, and tries instinctively—pointlessly—to close his legs.

"Not yet, my boy," Washington soothes. Commanding heat has faded in favor of equally familiar affection. "Let me do this right. I don't want to hurt you."

It is an agonizingly slow process. Every nerve, every muscle, every inch of skin is hypersensitive now, but Washington insists on withdrawing with patient and maddening care. By the time the last inches slip from Hamilton's loose and exhausted body, Washington has resorted to pinning him by wrists and thighs just to keep him still.

"Are you all right, my dear?" The forceful touch relaxes and Washington helps Hamilton stand up. Cradles him protectively when Hamilton slumps, not quite able to keep his feet.

"Oh, I'm good." It comes out a sated purr, rough around the edges. "We are _definitely_ doing that again." They've got three days before Washington's real body is healed enough to emerge from the isolated confines of the regen chamber. Longer, maybe. Hamilton is confident he'll be up for another round before that time is up.

Washington chuckles and the tendril around Hamilton's waist flexes fondly. "Insatiable as ever."

"Mmm," Hamilton agrees. He squirms in the strange embrace, wanting more. The only downside to this escapade: now that he's spent and wrung dry, he wants sleepy kisses and a warm body to lie down with, the way his captain always holds him in Washington's enormous bed.

Logistically he's not going to get those things. An understandable tradeoff, but still disappointing.

"You're really not hurt?" Washington strokes the end of a second tendril along Hamilton's throat, traces it down along his collarbone.

Hamilton takes a moment to consider, knowing Washington wants an honest answer.

He does ache. His throat is scratchy and sore, and his ass throbs with a repetitive discomfort that he will be aware of for days. He feels strange as hell _inside_ , but it's not a bad feeling—not a hurt exactly—more an awareness of places he did not know could be so _full_. Even now that Washington has withdrawn, there is phantom sensation lingering from the ordeal.

It's fucked up, and also thrilling.

"I'm really not hurt," he confirms with absolute sincerity. And then, because he is curious—because he doesn't know how Washington's borrowed body works—he asks, "Did you come?" Even if the answer is no, he will ask Washington to fuck him again. But it'll be a whole lot more fun if he knows his captain is getting off too.

The question earns him a gust of laughter, followed by a heated, "Yes, Alexander. I certainly did. Haven't you noticed what a mess I made of you?"

And oh, he _hadn't_ noticed. Too busy cataloging welcome aches and bruises. But when he moves now he can feel it, the tacky slickness between his thighs. Messy and wet, still dripping from his body, along his skin. There's so _much_ of it. Even distracted as he is, it's a wonder he didn't notice his captain filling him so vigorously.

" _Oh_." Hamilton shivers, a quieter pulse of pleasure coursing through him at the knowledge of just how thoroughly Washington has used him.

Washington laughs again, low and fond. "We both need to clean up. Can you reach the washroom under your own power?"

"Maybe," Hamilton answers candidly. "I'm tired. I can try."

He makes it just fine, his legs steady enough beneath him now that he's had a few minutes to recover. The washroom is small—nowhere near enough space for both of them at once—and it's impossible to activate the sonic shower without closing the door. Reluctant as Hamilton is to block Washington out, in the interest of efficiency he claims the first shower, sealing himself in alone.

There's a mirror taking up nearly an entire wall, and Hamilton inspects his reflection before activating the sonic. He is desperate to see just how completely his captain has debauched him.

The view doesn't disappoint. There's the mess between his thighs, slick and widespread and staining his skin a faintly shimmering blue. There is a similar tinge at his throat, though without the disaster of wetness. More darkens his swollen lips—he honestly doesn't remember Washington coming down his throat—doesn't remember swallowing. Hard to imagine he could have failed to notice such a thing, but then he failed to note the mess between his legs. Clearly even his quick mind is not capable of processing so much at once.

He lets his eyes wander, taking in more detail. Deep, purpling bruises stripe his skin, just beginning to come up; he will wear the proof of this encounter for _days_. He will have to avoid sickbay once they return to the Nelson, lest Laurens register the state of him and start asking uncomfortable questions. The bruises are darkest where they circle his thighs and wrists, and the sight makes Hamilton's pulse rush feverishly.

Better still are the handful of places where more solid marks have been left. Round and angry red, deeper even than the bruises. Evidence that he did not imagine the teasing spots of suction on his skin where Washington touched him or held on. Fuck, there are a dozen marks easily, all nearly perfect circles. Sensitive to the touch when Hamilton applies experimental pressure.

The internal comm panel beside him pings and Washington asks, "Is everything all right, Alexander?"

He must be taking too long. He didn't mean to grow distracted, or to worry his captain.

He touches the panel and answers. "Everything's fine. I'll be done in a minute."

Grudgingly he activates the sonics, and begins to scrub himself clean.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this fic was randomly generated via several simultaneous dice rolls. I won't bore you with the details, but please know it posed some VERY PARTICULAR CHALLENGES and I'm unreasonably proud of the results.


End file.
